Too Late For Regrets
by raven00
Summary: Harry realises that the war left too many casualties. He tries to make amends - and falls in love along the way. HPDM slash.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I own nothing except the plot. The characters, settings etc all belong to JK Rowling.

A/N: This is a slash fic, Harry and Draco slash. If you find this offensive, then don't read. To everyone else, enjoy reading and please review!

Title: Too Late For Regrets

Summary: Harry realises that the war left too many casualties. He tries to make amends - and falls in love along the way. HPDM slash.

* * *

Harry couldn't help but feel a smile spreading across his face as he looked around him. Hermione sat to his left, and at the moment she was laughing at something Ron had said. To his right, Luna was in deep conversation with Ginny (he thought he heard something about _snarflaggus _- _"if you listen carefully, you can hear them singing," Luna was saying to a rather sceptical-looking Ginny_). Neville and Seamus were on a challenge to see who could drink the most Butterbeer in a minute; it looked like Seamus was winning.

Almost the whole student population was making merry at Hogsmeade. Though the war had ended at least two months ago, life hadn't yet quite returned to normal and proper schedule hadn't quite been put in place yet. It was too soon to go back to the way things were. People were still reliving their recent memories – even Hermione was more interested in having a proper celebration instead of fretting over missing a few Potions or Transfigurations study sessions. The war had taught them far more than any classroom could, after all.

Harry took another swig of Butterbeer as he surveyed the rest of the Three Broomsticks. Students from all houses were mingling, gathering together at tables and sharing drinks as they recounted their memories of the war. There were loud clanking of glasses as people cheered to Voldemort's death, and there were pockets of quiet spaces where others sat in silence, remembering the dead. He personally preferred the cheerful atmosphere at his table.

His gaze stopped at a single person at the far end of the bar, almost unnoticeable except for the unmistakeable white-blond hair. _Draco Malfoy_. Sitting alone, nursing a tall mug. _Probably not Butterbeer_, thought Harry.

He wasn't surprised at the other boy's solitude. After the war, few Slytherins remained alive. Of those who had survived, most were prosecuted accordingly for their war crimes. The Malfoys were spared the harshest punishments – Harry himself testified to their help and they were let go with only a few of their riches confiscated. It was nothing devastating; the Malfoys still had more than enough gold to ensure a comfortable lifestyle. It was something else under the surface that bothered Draco, thought Harry. He mulled over the sight of Malfoy for a few moments, before abruptly standing up. "I'm going to talk to Malfoy," he announced to no one in particular. Not that anyone noticed, he realised as he strode purposefully toward the blond boy – his friends were all preoccupied with their own chatter and didn't seem to even realise he had left.

Draco didn't acknowledge Harry's presence as he slid onto the stool next to him. Harry mulled over the sight of the blond, suddenly unsure of what to say. "I'll have one of whatever he's having," he said instead to the barman, who nodded and poured a deep amber liquid into a mug before setting it in front of him. Harry took a swig and choked; it most _definitely_ was not Butterbeer. Draco snorted. "You sip, not chug," he murmured, demonstrating. Harry watched as the blond raised his mug to his lips, took a sip – a rather long one, thought Harry – licked his lips and set the mug down. And then those silvery blue eyes were upon him. "What are you doing here?" It was a simple question. Straightforward, to the point, lacking of any insult or emotion. Harry frowned.

"Drinking," he replied, averting his gaze as he tried to replicate Draco's sip-and-lick routine. The liquid burned his mouth and left a warm trail as it went down his throat, surprising him with a sweet aftertaste that lingered pleasantly. An enticing aroma seemed to envelope him from within. "Vanilla?" he asked, taking another sip.

Draco nodded wearily. "My mother's favourite." He took another deep, long sip, emptying his mug. He sighed, signalling for a refill. "You haven't answered my question."

"You're alone." It wasn't an answer as much as it was a question, but he didn't know what else to say. Harry tried stalling for time by taking another sip. The alcohol was strong – he felt slightly lightheaded, and in front of him, Draco's features were starting to go fuzzy around the edges. "You can join us, if you like." The words were out before he could stop himself. He turned almost frantically toward his friends, already regretting his invitation.

Draco laughed softly, shaking his head. "Congratulations, Potter. I do believe you hold the record for the quickest drunk I know."

Harry shook his head – his thoughts were jumbled up and he was losing clarity. "How many have you had?" he asked, pointing to Draco's mug.

The blond held up five fingers. "My fifth," he shrugged, taking an elegant sip.

Harry simply nodded. "How's your mother?"

Draco raised his eyebrows, considering Harry carefully. "She's coping," he replied curtly. "And father has joined the Ministry. I suppose you already know that."

Harry nodded again. "Look, Malfoy – I don't know how to say this, but I…well, thank you," he muttered, opting for another sip of alcohol over looking at the blond.

If Draco was surprised, he hid it well. "What for?" he asked.

Harry frowned – there was that lack of emotion again. "You fought with us."

Draco sipped thoughtfully, and the silence that surrounded them thickened with unspoken thoughts and memories. "I fought for my mother," he finally replied. "And my mother fought for me. We didn't fight for anyone else." He drained his fifth mug and abruptly stood up. "I do believe your celebration is waiting, Potter." He turned to leave, but Harry was gripping his arm, pulling him back.

"Wait," Harry gasped, surprised at his own disappointment in the blond's emptiness. "Malfoy, join us. Please." He stared at the blond, waiting for a reply that he already knew.

Draco's features rearranged themselves on his face in a way that Harry couldn't quite fathom – it was something in between a smile and a frown. _He looks like he's about to cry, _thought Harry suddenly. He let go of his grip on Draco's arm abruptly and looked down, feeling uncomfortable. He wasn't even sure why he was even talking to Malfoy, let alone inviting him to join his friends – who would probably be polite, but not very welcome. When he looked up, however, the blond was staring at him with a mixture of resentment and tiredness.

"Goodnight, _hero_," was all Draco muttered before he left, disappearing almost instantly out a side door he never knew existed and blending into the night.

Harry stared after him a moment, then finished the rest of his vanilla cocktail in one long gulp. It burned, but for some reason, it comforted him. When he rejoined his friends, they were oblivious to his absence – with the exception of Luna, who cocked her head to her side with a questioning look which he carefully ignored.

And when he drifted off to sleep later that night, he was chasing Draco in the Forbidden Forest at night, managing to lose the silvery blond hair just before he heard tortured screams.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I own nothing except the plot. The characters, settings etc all belong to JK Rowling.

A/N: This is a slash fic, Harry and Draco slash. If you find this offensive, then don't read. To everyone else, enjoy reading and please review!

Title: Too Late For Regrets

Summary: Harry realises that the war left too many casualties. He tries to make amends - and falls in love along the way. HPDM slash.

* * *

Hogwarts and the Ministry had jointly decided that students could go home, if they so wished, every Sunday. It was a temporary arrangement that was meant to soothe wounds from the war and to reassure parents that their children were indeed safe.

Harry dreaded Sundays. He had no real family to speak of – the closest he had to actual relatives, aside from Dudley, Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia, were the Weasleys. And while he very much enjoyed the company of Ron and Ginny while they were at Hogwarts, it was different when they were at The Burrow.

For one, there was a noticeable absence in the family. Mrs. Weasley, no matter how hard she tried, could never quite completely hide her ongoing grief. The rest of the family did a fine job of maintaining appearances – but Harry could sense the despair rippling beneath the surface.

It wasn't fair, and it wasn't his fault, but Harry felt uneasy nonetheless. It was a mixture of guilt and his own uncomfortable presence. He was an outsider, looking in on a grieving family. And no matter how much Molly, Arthur and the rest of the Weasleys tried to tell him otherwise, he couldn't convince himself that he wasn't intruding.

It was a Sunday that Harry awoke to, after horrible dreams of a tortured blonde boy. A bright, cheery Sunday, with sunlight streaming in through the castle windows and clear blue skies all round. The mood inside the castle was almost festive – Ron was even wearing one of Molly Weasley's knitted maroon sweaters.

"Morning, Harry!" he exclaimed, noticing that he was awake. "I'll meet you at breakfast," he all but shouted before heading out the boys' dormitory. "Hang on, 'Mione – I'm coming!" Ron disappeared to the Common Room.

It was a typical Sunday routine for them to have breakfast at the Great Hall, then to use the specially constructed Hogwarts Floo Network to arrive at The Burrow. Them, in this case, referred to Harry, Ron, Hermione and Ginny. The day at The Burrow would be spent with the rest of the Weasleys – sharing a huge meal, tinkering with Muggle electronic objects, sneaking out a make-out session, reminiscing the twins' antics, playing with Bill and Fleur's new baby…the list went on, and the activities were all exciting, but they were all tinged with sadness and quiet desperation.

_Quiet desperation, _thought Harry, was what he felt, magnified, every Sunday with the Weasleys. It was a desperation that had to do with the fact that his own family (at least the one he cared for) was gone forever, and that the only other family he could ever imagine being a part of – was, and would always be, incomplete because of the war.

With a sigh, he slowly got ready for breakfast at the Great Hall. He was in no hurry, and by the time he arrived at the Gryffindor table, Hermione, Ron and Ginny were waiting expectantly, having long eaten their fill.

"It's about time," Hermione started, before frowning. "Are you alright, Harry?" she asked - "You look rather ill."

Harry feigned a sigh and shook his head, reaching for a glass of pumpkin juice. "I don't think I'm well," he muttered. "Must have been all that Butterbeer." Ron snorted, and Harry ignored him.

"Oh, Harry," Ginny sidled up to him, pressing the back of her hand against his warm forehead which was heating up considerably, thanks to a simple charm. "You're having a fever," she gazed at him, eyes wide with concern.

A twinge of guilt stabbed his conscience, but Harry wasn't about to back down. _Almost there,_ he thought, grimacing as Ginny patted his back gently.

"I'm sure mum will make you something that will have you feeling better," Ron piped up. Harry sighed and all but slumped onto the table face-first.

"I don't think I'm up for a day out today," he mumbled, face buried in his hands.

"Go get some rest," Ginny's voice whispered in his ear like a soothing balm. "I'll bring back some soup for you." Harry nodded, raising his head to kiss her lightly on the cheek.

"Thank you," he murmured, meaning it for reasons other than what she probably thought.

Ginny smiled. "I'll see you in the evening. Feel better." She kissed his forehead and stood up.

"Mum will miss you," warned Ron.

"Take care, Harry," added Hermione before the trio turned to leave, her voice uncertain. Harry knew she suspected something amiss. He smiled confidently and waved, and she left it at that.

Harry watched them go, feeling slightly morose, then stood up with surprising energy and walked purposefully down the Hogwarts hallway. He knew exactly what he needed, and where he would find it: The Room of Requirement.

The Room of Requirement was at the moment occupied, unknown to Harry. He closed his eyes and thought of what he wanted: company. Company of those he missed dearly, and company of those he would never see again in real life, or at least company of someone comforting – someone he did not have to put up a false front for. He hoped for the Mirror of Erised, at least, but when he opened the door, he couldn't quite wrap his mind around what, or rather who, was waiting inside.

There was Malfoy, sitting alone and looking equally shocked to see him. The room itself was comforting, for sure – there were cushions everywhere and a warm fireplace in the middle of the room where Malfoy sat and even a tray of his favourite foods on a small side table. But the Room of Requirement had somehow deduced that he required _Malfoy_. Harry couldn't decide between crying and laughing.

"What are you doing here?" Draco asked, before Harry could do either. The blond was looking at Harry suspiciously, eyes narrowed.

"I could ask you the same thing," Harry replied, nonchalantly picking up a mug of amber liquid from a table that had appeared next to him. He took a sniff at it and threw his head back, swallowing it in one big gulp. It was Malfoy's vanilla cocktail.

"You sip, not gulp," muttered Draco. "How very plebeian." He sipped at his own flute of pink bubbly liquid.

"How poncy," Harry retorted, reaching for a chocolate frog and sinking down onto the plush seat next to Draco and noisily tearing off the wrapper.

Draco simply sipped his bubbly, glaring at Harry. "You haven't answered my question."

"Neither have you." Harry shrugged, taking a bite of his chocolate frog. "Last time I checked, this was a public space. I have every right to be here." He eyed Draco's drink and a similar flute appeared on the table beside him. Harry took a sip and smiled.

"I was here first, and I asked to be alone," Draco shot back.

"I have to hand it to you, you _do_ know your alcohol," Harry murmured, taking a bigger draw of the bubbly. "Rose essence?" he asked, tilting his glass and peering at it sideways.

"Rose-infused champagne," Draco replied, draining his glass. It refilled itself automatically. Harry did likewise, feeling warm bubbles spreading across his insides as he drank.

"I wanted to talk to someone," said Harry, by way of explanation. He waved his arm – "apparently, I required _this_." His gaze landed squarely on Draco's. "You want to talk?" he asked, raising his glass for a toast, feeling reckless all of a sudden.

Draco raised an eyebrow and his glass simultaneously, clinking it against Harry's. "You really _are _the cheapest drunk I know," he murmured.

Harry frowned and drank some more, feeling a sense of lightness envelope him. The sudden camaraderie felt wrong, and he could feel that quiet desperation creeping in underneath the surface again. He knew what he had to ask. "Why aren't you at home?"

Draco's features hardened. "That's none of your business."

"I never said it was," Harry replied. "But I think I deserve to know, considering I saved your life more than once," the words were out in the air before he knew what he was saying.

Draco's face flashed – it was a mixture of anger, hatred and something else, thought Harry. Something deep and emotional. _Pain_, he realised, suddenly overcome with guilt. "I'm sorry," he mumbled, but it wasn't enough. As if by way of punishment, scenes suddenly replayed in his mind. There were flashes of light and screams and cries for help, mingled with confessions of love and promises to stay alive. Almost instinctively, he dropped his glass and clutched at his scar – before realising that it wasn't hurting. He looked up, embarrassed, only to be met with an equally distraught-looking Draco Malfoy.

"Go away," Draco whispered, and for once, Harry complied without arguing. He stood up and walked towards the door, a tumultuous mixture of emotions bubbling up inside of him. Before he walked out, a bouquet of white flowers appeared beside Draco.

The blond scooped it up and inhaled the familiar scent deeply.

"So that's what they look like," said Harry, before closing the door behind him. He stood still for a long moment before walking back to his dorm and falling into yet another bout of disturbed sleep.

Inside the Room of Requirement Draco drank alone, staring at fresh, white flowers.


End file.
